


Yellow Eyes that See Through Him

by K_Popsicle



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bathing/Washing, Bathtub Sex, Bisexuality, Hair Washing, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24363022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Popsicle/pseuds/K_Popsicle
Summary: In which Geralt gets dirty and baths are essential. Also soulmarks are a thing.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 805
Collections: The Witcher, Writing Rainbow Make Up Round, Writing Rainbow Yellow





	Yellow Eyes that See Through Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



> Also in which inn’s come with pre-filled bathtub barrels full of warm water because _reasons_. Don’t think too hard on it.

Geralt thinks nothing of it when Jaskier bullies him into a bath the first time. Actually, he thinks a lot about it, mostly ‘No,’ then some while later, ‘Why is he still pestering me?’ and then not much later when the other man’s prodding him with a broom handle, ‘The sooner I do it the sooner he’ll stop.’ So he thinks a little, but not about the kind of things most people consider when been harried and followed into a bath by someone. Geralt doesn’t think about propriety, what use is that to him, when Jaskier starts to undo his laces and push his clothes aside. He thinks instead about those fidgety fingers messing up ties he’s worked hard to get just right, so he uses a firm hand to push the hands back and strips out of the heavy leathers himself. Then steps into bath to rub the grime of the road and the dead off himself.

After that it becomes a _thing_ , in that Jaskier is determined that so long as he forces his way into Geralt’s company Geralt wont smell less like a thrice dead rat (his words) and instead like someone who has discovered the wonderous glories of hygiene (also his words). Geralt accepts that taking the bath keeps Jaskier off his back, and silently accepts that it is pleasant to feel clean. The biggest problem is that he notices dirt more once he’s gotten into regular bathing. It’s not ideal for his lifestyle.

“The things is, my wonderful broody companion,” Jaskier announces as he ladles water down Geralt’s back, “the lady of Mivrat Tower is a renowned beauty” he idly rubs Geralt's shoulders with the damp cloth and continues to talk. Geralt lets his head hang forward but pretends he’s not offering the slope of his back to Jaskier's ministrations as that would be unacceptable. “And if you would just put in a good word for me I could-“ Jaskier stops suddenly, his warm hands still right near a knot Geralt was anticipating being worked out.

“What?” He asks through the curtain of white hair covering his eyes, and Jaskier’s fingers move up his neck towards the space between his neck and hairline. A specific place. Geralt catches the wandering hand with a snap. “Don’t touch it.” He orders.

It’s strange because Jaskier has touched most of him now, but aside from scoops of water he usually avoids Geralt’s hair. Geralt prefers it that way because hands too close to his face and soulmark make him feel nervous and he does not like to feel nervous. It’s strange too, because part of his training was to desensitise him to the intrusion but the idea of Jaskier _touching his soulmark_ makes his stomach quiver unbearably and it’s simply better if he doesn’t.

“Right-“ Jaskier sounds a little breathless.

“All witchers have one.” He defends because he suddenly thinks he needs to defend himself.

“Of course-“ Jaskier's fingers twitch within his firm grip and Geralt realises he’s still holding on. He drops Jaskier’s hand like it’s cursed and repositions himself in the bath so his back is no longer to the other man. Jaskier appears arrested by shock and Geralt closes off in defence.

“Are we done?” He growls out, and Jaskier’s face does something complicated before his expression smooths out into banality. It is the least Jaskier expression Geralt has seen in their entire acquaintance. If the other man isn’t lording himself over a room, sucking all the attention and energy towards himself, he isn’t in a room.

He’s still holding the wash cloth, sleeves rolled up above his elbows, and water dripping down onto his best shoes. “I should-“ he, waves at the door but his eyes are glued to Geralt.

“Fine.” Geralt grits out. He’s no longer in the mood for a bath. He’s clean enough, the scent of lavender clinging to him obnoxiously because Jaskier had thought it would be funny to add it to the water. He turns his back on Jaskier and climbs out of the water.

There’s a noise, like a mouse being squished, and then Jaskier runs away.

Geralt pauses, naked and dripping water, and considers the interaction. He dismisses curses and spells, he throws away doppelgangers because they were better at acting like Jaskier than Jaskier himself it seemed. No, whatever just happened was complicated human interactions, a field Geralt is sorely at a loss with. He tries to parse it out but as the water on his skin chills and goose bumps rise he knows he won’t solve the puzzle. Jaskier is too hard to follow, too fast, too bright, too alive. Geralt dries himself off and forgets about it, either Jaskier will bring it up again of it isn’t a problem worth his time. Resolved Geralt goes to find some ale and a woman for the night.

The Chimera is, if nothing else, hard to kill. Geralt bears the worse of it, but he’s mutated to take the punishment. Jaskier who wasn’t even meant to be near the fight somehow ends up injured.

Before he’s even driven his sword through the thing’s thick skull Geralt know that Jaskier’s sustained a head wound, his arm has been sliced open, and if he’s ankle hasn’t sustained an injury from the way he twisted as he fell Geralt would sing one of his ballads at the next inn they stop at. Needless to say, he’s fairly confident Jaskier won’t be walking properly for a while. That’s hardly a concern though when the bard is blabbering nonsense and there is blood pouring over his face and down his neck.

“Right.” Is all the warning he gives the other man before he grips Jaskier’s uninjured arm and pulls him up over his shoulders like a slaughtered deer. Jaskier makes a few noises of protest, his belly pressed up against the back of Geralt’s neck, and Geralt ignores them as he picks a fast path down the mountain and back to Roach and their camp.

By the time they hobble into the nearest town Geralt is sure that Jaskier isn’t in any peril, and if the vocal way Jaskier recites the entire encounter, relishing the glorifying details and picking apart rhymes and rhythms Geralt cares nothing for is any indication he’s feeling healthy and hearty. He still makes soft little pained noises when Geralt drags him down off Roach’s back and sets him to standing.

“No.” Geralt tries to side step him to tend to Roach who deserves all the rewards for baring such an unreasonable rider for so long.

“I didn’t even ask anything!” Jaskier protests. Geralt tries to walk around him and realises that Jaskier has a grip on his arm. He’s not sure how he didn’t notice, but he glares at the hold now he knows it’s there.

“You were going to.” Geralt goes to remove the hand on him thick callouses over tender skin, and Jaskier lays his other hand over the back of his own. They stay there, his right hand trapped between both of the bards and Geralt isn’t quite able to process the way his heart does a skip beat and tumble. It’s just hands. It’s just Jaskier’s hands. He’s fought nightmares with barely an irregularity in his heart beat. He snatches his away from the little tableau and glares into crystal blue eyes.

“It’s just I don’t think I can walk that far.” Jaskier says without shame. “What if I injure myself further?”

Geralt calculates fifteen steps to the inn door, and weighs it against the need to tend to Roach. “Fine,” he says, “stay where you are then.” And tends to Roach. The smile that twitches on his lips as Jaskier sputters behind him can’t be seen by anyone else so he lets himself enjoy it.

By the time he’s finished with Roach’s quick brush down Jaskier’s still only moved far enough to lean against a small fence. He stands with his arms crossed over his chest looking defiant- and gaunt.

Geralt redirects to the bard on impulse, taking in the dried blood, the flaking poultices Geralt had hastily rammed into the gaping wounds on his arm and head, and the colourful silks Jaskier cared for so much stained and torn beyond saving, and picks the other man up. This time he doesn’t sling him over his shoulders, he slips one hand under Jaskier’s knees the other behind his back and lifts. Jaskier’s arms almost make it around his neck before he catches himself, and Geralt is surprised to feel disappointed by the aborted move even if he’d been the one to set the boundary.

The thing Geralt never quite understood about soulmarks was why they reacted the ways they did. Not just to the one person who was said to match their, but to every touch, every caress. You could wring as much pleasure as pain from the marks, and his training had taught him how to endure the later while the women he’d paid for the company of had trained him on the former. He’s not entirely sure why, though he’s building a terrible idea, but he doesn’t want Jaskier to touch it. Pleasure or pain. He doesn’t want those from the other man. He doesn’t think he would recover from the experience.

Geralt has never bathed Jaskier. He’s not sure what that says about them that Jaskier throws flowers into his bath water and rubs the dirt from his tired muscles and that he’s never seen the other man naked. He remedies this in quick efficient moves, more rips Jaskier's clothes off than removes them and Jaskier protests with a mild, “I liked those pants.” Geralt doesn’t bother to answer back because there’s black gore stains down one leg and he’d already cut the lower leg away so he could wrap Jaskier’s ankle and apply the herbs.

He’s not sure about Jaskier’s underlayers. He’s always done this himself the few times Jaskier has needed to man handle him into the process when he’s been too exhausted to protest someone else removing his clothes haphazardly. Even then he’s managed to strip those final layers himself. He isn’t sure if this is a thing they do, but Jaskier stares up at the roof stubbornly and doesn’t make a move to do anything himself. As if that decision has been made for him Geralt removes the rest, careful of his fingers, careful of his eyes going where they shouldn’t.

Bullying through the process so he doesn’t have time to think Geralt picks Jaskier back up, ignores the surprised sound it elicits, and steps fully clothed into the warm water to set Jaskier down carefully.

“Your shoes are going to be wet.” Jaskier says breathlessly where he’s been put, eyes locked around Geralt’s knees as the witcher stands over him.

“They’re wet.” He acknowledges and without leaving the water quickly takes both of them off and throws them to the side.

Jaskier’s eyes seem to grow huge, the blue of this pupils disappearing as his pupils expand. Geralt hesitates, confused, then asks tentatively, “Do you want me to wash you?”

“Yes!” Jaskier scrambles, catches the material of Geralt’s thigh and holds fast. “Do that.” He insists eagerly. “But-“ his eyes rake up and down Geralt, and Geralt waits for whatever instruction is to follow, “take these, all of it, off.” Jaskier croaks throat flushing a vivid pink.

Confused by Jaskier’s uncharacteristic behaviour Geralt starts to say, “You don’t-“ when Jaskier’s other hand catches his other thigh, but higher up. Closer. Sexual desire sparks through Geralt in an unexpected jolt. His muscles tense, his breath catches, his cock tightens and thickens. All at once he puts it together. Because he _wants_. He wants Jaskier? He looks at the man, sprawled out naked below him, fingers curled into his pant legs, looking up at him mouth open, pupils blow, and a blush rising high up his chest and neck. He _wants_ , but more, he can have.

“Fuck it.” He rumbles and Jaskier’s eyes flutter closed, the corners of his mouth curving and Geralt’s impatience overwhelms him. He strips his top off, kicks a space in between long legs that spread willingly, and pushes his pants below his hips. He doesn’t have time to take them off completely, burning too hot to slow down and question what’s happening. He presses down, the angles wrong, he lifts Jaskier’s trim hips up to meet his own, a hand braced on the rim of the tub so he shadows the bard and pulls and ruts into soft warm skin.

“Geralt.” Jaskier gasps, back arching hand reaching back to grip the rim of the tub as well, bracing himself from being submerged as Geralt moves him to match his own desire. With ever push of his hips he jerks Jaskier back against him. It’s a hard rhythm, his cock rubbing into the crease of Jaskier’s thigh, and it’s not enough, nowhere near enough, too much.

Jaskier gets a grip on his right shoulder and digs his fingers in. He tries to say something, Geralt can hear the punched-out squeak of words as the water sloshes over the edge of the tub with every hard shove of his hips. He should slow down, let Jaskier catch his breath, but he knows if he stops- if he stops he won’t start again. It’s too good, like fire boiling up through his veins to sear his heart. Enough to kill him if he doesn’t choke it down and remember himself. Right now he’s willing to die, to let it consume him. But later, if he stops- when he stops, it’ll all be over.

“Like this, like this.” Jaskier manages to gasp against the assault, and then he’s dragging Geralt’s hand to the small of his back. Obedient Geralt holds him up, a bruising hand on his hip, the other curled carefully along the curve of a breakable spine. “That’s it,” Jaskier pants, “pick me up. On your lap.” Even through the sex haze Geralt obeys the order, lifting and shifting the slighter man until he’s leaning back into the bath with Jaskier’s pale legs splayed obscenely around the thick of his thighs. Jaskier’s hands crawl high into his hair and twist his head back so Geralt can do little more than stare up into the face he knows too well. “You beast,” he says with a teasing curl to his lips his voice a smoky rasp, “now fuck me properly.”

Geralt stills, he’s not unaware of what that means, not unaware of the risks. “No.” He denies, and his hands keep moving the hips over his, grinding the lithe body against himself. Jaskier is all pink and desperate, rolling his own hips into the rhythm they’ve found and fists Geralt’s hair punishingly.

“Fuck me, Geralt.” He orders again, and instead of saying no again Geralt buries his face in Jaskier’s long neck, mouths at the heated skin and wraps his hand around both their cocks. Jaskier forgets his demands, head lolling back as he breaths out desperate little words of worship that Geralt pretends don’t soak into his skin and brand him. Instead he jerks them against each other, confused and excited by an act he’s never done before and how it shouldn’t be enough but it is. It is.

He’s barely had time to think that it’s Jaskier, that the man in his lap is the same man whose written songs about him, who fights over the last bite of meat over the campfire spit, who fills the silence between them in a way that was annoying but has become familiar- known, when the pleasure sparks behind his eyes and he loses himself to the sensation as it rips though him. It leaves him numb. Head thrown back against the rim of the tub as the man over him continues to rock into his loose fist whining high in his throat, fingers curled around the hard muscles of Geralt’s shoulders as he leverages himself against his stilled companion.

Geralt rallies himself to reach out, to close his fist a bit tighter even though his dick is over sensitive, but Jaskier leans forward instead, brushes his mouth across Geralt’s chin, his check, and then finds his unprotesting mouth. Languidly Geralt kissing him back, threading his fingers into Jaskier’s short hair to angle him so he can slide into his warmth in a way he denied himself just moments before. It’s enough, apparently, because Jaskier’s body tenses, hips juddering against him, and then his body sags against Geralt’s.

The only movement is the bathwater lapping at the rim of the barrel as it settles.

Geralt refuses to wake up, his hand drags up and down Jaskier’s unblemished back mapping the contours of muscle. The rest of him synchs to Jaskier’s breathing, his heart beat as it calms down, the way he moulds himself to Geralt chest and belly and thighs pressed tight but not uncomfortably.

It ends- it has to end he knows- when there’s a loud noise outside the door. Revellers in the inn stumbling loudly down the hallway, a woman giggling for her coin, and Geralt wakes up.

He tenses and Jaskier peels himself away with a winch as if he can read Geralt.

“Right,” Jaskier says once, tone low and a little lost and then gingerly lifts his leg and shifts around so he’s beside Geralt and not draped over him like an obscene decoration. “Well-“

Geralt stands up, can’t hear it. The disturbed water spills over the side of the tub, but there’s already water everywhere. He tugs his pants back over his hips and steps out of the tub, “I’ll be downstairs.” He says, and takes his top and sword but not his shoes.

He doesn’t hear what Jaskier says in reply, but he knows it’s loud because even half way down the hallway he can still hear it. The eyes that are turned in his direction when he steps into the bar shoeless and wet all snap away just as fast when he meets them with a glower, then he finds a table and orders as much booze as he has coin for.

When Jaskier appears Geralt is already half way to drunk and aching for someone to start a fight with him so he can burn out the energy still fizzling in his limbs. Instead of approaching him though Jaskier hops over to the maid at the counter and in the brighter part of the room Geralt see’s in striking detail that Jaskier is wearing a sheet wrapped around his legs, and Geralt’s other black shirt. It’s indecent, it’s ridiculous, it’s… the only clothes he had access to.

Geralt looks away and drinks his ale as Jaskier flirts with the maid behind the counter, recounting the Chimera battle in flourishing glory. The tale ends with an apology for the water in the room and the request for something to wear. Some of the men laugh, one of them goes off to retrieve him something and the group insists he sit down with them and tell them more stories.

Geralt realises the room is no longer the escape he needs. Outside is safest, especially with Jaskier disrobed and unable to follow, but Geralt can’t seem to bring himself to do it. Instead he gets up, it must be loud because Jaskier’s eyes track the movement, and Geralt barefooted stalks back to their room to try and sleep the mistake away.

Somehow they don’t talk about it. Geralt expects Jaskier to disappear in the middle of the night, maybe Jaskier expects the same, but neither of them do and instead there’s silent mornings, long days, and every time they touch by accident Geralt is too keenly aware of it. Eventually Jaskier can’t help but talk, and the talking is the same benign rambling it always was like even Jaskier knows Geralt’s mistake is too taboo to speak of. Of course he knows, who couldn’t know?

When he fights the Hulder he makes Jaskier wait in the nearest town. The bard doesn’t argue, he never agues anymore, and Geralt grits his teeth and takes off before he can say any of the things choking his throat wanting to slip out. He is not sorry. He is not. But he thinks he’s supposed to be.

The Hulder is a vicious thing, and it’s not alone. Usually they’re tempting and peaceful, but the war has ravaged the lands and even the creatures have had to adapt. They have claws, speed, and fire and Geralt has to gut each of them until they stop twitching. He’s worse for wear and walks back to town rather than dripping muck across Roach’s flanks.

Jaskier is lounging in a sunbeam on the raised edges of the village’s bridge, lute in hand and a tune being hummed softly. It’s a nice song, Geralt doesn’t know it but he knows Jaskier style well enough to know that it’s been in the works for a while. He recognises the surety with which Jaskier strums out the notes, voice too low to hear the lyrics but the song is nearly finished. In a few nights it might be ready for an audience, but for now Jaskier has composed a song under Geralt’s nose without Geralt ever having heard a word of it. It’s… painful. A wound from a foolish choice. Jaskier has never kept anything from Geralt before, always told him too much on every subject, and now there’s a melody floating across another nowhere village and Geralt’s missed its composition entirely. He wonders, as Jaskier notices him and stops playing, if he would have ever heard it had he not come across the bard when he wasn’t expected.

Whatever surprise Jaskier has is set out of sight after a moment and then he’s pushing himself up with a smile, “You’re a mess, did she try and drown you in her own blood?”

His, “Yes,” is curt, but Jaskier doesn’t deflate, he quick steps around Geralt looking him over and keeping his distance. “You need a bath.” He says and Geralt’s heart clenches with memory of fever and skin.

“Yes.” He says and inexplicably it comes out like a plea. Jaskier is behind him but he feels him still. He can’t take it back, doesn’t have enough words to try, so it’s up to Jaskier to break them apart again.

“Okay,” Jaskier agrees his voice barely a breath, “let’s get you a bath.” Then more damning because Jaskier has never done anything by half, “I’ll help you wash your hair.”

Geralt shudders and wants to push Jaskier away. Break whatever’s happening, instead he moves step by step as if tugged by an invisible string towards the inn and Jaskier silently keeps by his side. Too close. Too far away. Geralt can still taste him on his tongue. He wants to taste him again, wants to memorise the flavour of his skin until he can wrap his hand around his cock and fuck himself numb to the memory of it.

Jaskier deals with Roach with a confidence Geralt never expected. No flitted wasted energy, instead focused careful attention to detail as he unclips the saddle and does a perfunctory brush down. The stableboy puts out sweet grass once Jaskier slips him a coin, and then Geralt is being led inside by the hand Jaskier’s slips into his own. They’ve never done that - Geralt doesn’t know what’s happening but his hand is filthy and Jaskier’s is spotless. He rubs his thumb across Jaskier’s white knuckles and leaves a smear of grime in its wake. Jaskier glances back, eyes hooded and says nothing until all the doors are closed between them and the rest of the world.

“Clothes.” He orders, and Geralt fumbles out of them like his fingers have forgotten how to do what he wants them to do. Jaskier doesn’t help, Geralt doesn't want his help but it takes longer than it should and Jaskier watches it all with hungry eyes. Geralt’s nerves are so frayed by the time he’s wrenched off his shoes and reached for his pants that he hesitates uncharacteristically. He looks at his own hands on the laces and questions if he should be doing this at all. “All of them, or do you want them wet again?” Jaskier insists with a tinge of mirth and Geralt looks up hopeless at that sound. Whatever his face looks like it can’t be good because Jaskier’s smile smooths out, his mouth parts, and he looks suddenly lost. Geralt turns his back unable to deal with everything that expression is and strips completely before stepping into the full tub.

The water is hot, it sloshes around his ankles, then his hips as he lowers himself, then his head as he holds his breath and sinks completely under the waves. The world is muffled, just the overfast beat of his heart and the echo of Jaskier’s steps as he approaches. Geralt wants to stay forever, counts the seconds until his lungs begin to burn and resurfaces with his back to the threat in the room. When he breathes again he draws the air in slowly, calm - controlled. It betrays nothing of the way he maps the movements of the man behind him like there is nothing else in the room that matters. And perhaps today there isn’t.

Jaskier, when he touches him, does so carefully like he expects Geralt to shatter. Geralt grits his teeth and bares it without complaint although Jaskier’s sweeping touch lights up his nerve endings and sets paths of fire across his skin.

“You’re a mess,” Jaskier says in a voice that isn’t like his own, too quiet, thoughtful. Geralt wants to reach back and grab the man, pull him into the water and do it all over again. Instead he curls his fingers around the rim of the tub and holds himself still.

Warm fingers thread through his bloody hair and short nails scrape across his scalp. Geralt closes his eyes and leans into the touch. Jaskier’s breath hitches and he does it again.

“I need you to tell me this is okay.” Jaskier begs, and Geralt squeezes his eyes closed tighter and nods. “Words,” Jaskier demands, and Geralt wets his lips and says with as steady a voice as he can muster, “This is okay.” It is not all that steady.

Jaskier hums low, unthreads his fingers from Geralt’s hair and there’s a light pressure against his temple, like Jaskier maybe kissed him but Geralt still can’t open his eyes. The press unwinds something in him. He refuses to examine that. “Soap and everything else,” Jaskier explains though there is no need, he’s under no obligations to Geralt, “don’t leave.”

Jaskier leaves him in a hurry, and Geralt submerges himself again letting the warm water soak into his muscles and soften the grime clinging to him, he rubs at the worst of it rather than let himself think.

“Oh, good you’re still here.” Jaskier says when he returns sounding a bit surprised and Geralt opens his eyes, but doesn’t turn towards the bard. There’s an apology wanting to bubble out of him, instead he says, “You told me to stay.”

“Yes!” Jaskier moves towards him urgently callous rough fingers digging into the thick of his shoulders and bracing him in place. They both breathe to calm, Jaskier’s fingers easing their pressure and Geralt wonders how this is happening, how it could have snuck up on him, but it’s too late now, he lets it happen. He keeps letting it happen.

When Jaskier moves it’s with deliberate care tilting him forwards, moving Geralt how he wants him, then carding his fingers through the tangles of Geralt’s hair. “How did you get so messy?” Jaskier murmurs into the quiet of the room his voice lulling the tension out of Geralt’s muscles, “It’s a wonder you’re ever clean without me around.”

“I’m not,” he admits just as quietly but honestly and Jaskier huffs a laugh that ghosts across the back of Geralt’s neck. He doesn’t shiver, but his body wants to.

“Of course I know _how_ you got so messy,” He talks like there’s not rush to it, idle conversation so they don’t fall into silence. It’s comforting like a blanket wrapped around the room and sheltering it from the world beyond and all its consequences. Jaskier’s clever fingers find a knot in his hair and carefully loosen it with water and soap. Geralt stares at the wall of the inn feeling each brush of the outside of Jaskier’s fingers against the nap of his neck, acutely aware of exactly how far away they are from touching his soulmark. He sits on a precipice of desire and fear and makes no move in either direction. “It’s just inconvenient, isn’t it? Couldn’t you avoid it?”

“I could just die.” Geralt tells him plainly and Jaskier makes a little noise of dissatisfaction.

“Maybe you need a hat.” He decides and buries his fingers into Geralt’s wet hair before dragging them through to the ends without catching. He pulls his hands away again, “You’d look fetching in a big brimmed hat,” his fingers return to Geralt’s scalp, lathered and warm as they worm against his scalp and massage. The scent of soap and rosemary drift down and overwhelm Geralt’s senses and he breathes them letting them clear his mind as much as it can while Jaskier’s sure fingers work him into a boneless slouch. “Or maybe something purple, a dark purple with a feather-“

“No hats.” Geralt disagrees because the image is too vivid, and Jaskier hmms and gathers a handful of Geralt’s hair in his fist. Geralt’s breath catches and holds, but Jaskier continues his ministrations, rubbing the lotion into the ends with an attention to detail Geralt cannot see but cannot help being aware of. When he washes his hair it’s a perfunctory experience, scrubbing to get every spec of grime out as fast as possible so he can be done with it. Jaskier treats Geralt’s hair like it _needs_ care and although there are no sensors for pain or pleasure in his hair Geralt feels pleasure like a rolling wave of rain rippling down his back to his toes that falls again and again.

“No hat then,” Jaskier agrees his voice low. He unwinds Geralt’s hair from his grip and gently pushes on Geralt’s right shoulder. Obediently Geralt submerges himself rinsing away the carefully applied lotion. When he surfaces Jaskier isn’t as close as he was. Geralt feels a hot bolt of panic – he’d been ready, for whatever this is, and now? He goes to turn, but Jaskier’s, “wait,” stills him. “I’m still here,” he promises, “just give me a moment.”

Geralt gives him as many as he wants and listens to the shift of clothes being removed. He doesn’t need to see to know what’s happening, his hearing catches each drag of leather as ties come undone, each scratch as buttons are unclasped, each rustle as piece by piece Jaskier drops his clothes on the ground. He’s got so many buttons, so many ties, so many _layers_ that it’s like torture waiting for it to end but it does end, and then Jaskier returns to him and winds his finger once more into Geralt’s hair tilting his head to the right, baring the stretch of Geralt’s neck and soulmark. His left hand rests on Geralt’s shoulder, index finger and thumb spaning the space around his soulmark without touching.

“I want to touch it.” Jaskier tells him like it’s nothing - an ale, some coin, the follow him into the mouth of danger – only instead of taking as he always does he’s _asking_ and Geralt loses his voice somewhere between yes and no. “But I won’t,” Jaskier promises firmly the warmth of his fingers burning like brands on Geralt’s bare skin stretched over his collar bone, “if you don’t want me to.”

Geralt looks out of the corner of his eye at the bard, hair tangled up and trapped in an unyielding grip, neck taut, and soulmark exposed. He’s seen his own mark a thousand times over the course of his life, it’s not special – no more than any other soulmark is – just another mark, yet Jaskier stares at it with hunger, his naked skin is flushed, and he’s holding himself back – holding something back. The idea – the reality – that Jaskier is hiding anything from him, holding anything back from him when he’s bare and open, bloody and yielding to his every ministration calms the rising panic in Geralt.

With absolutely certainty Geralt says, “Of course I want you to.”

Jaskier’s breath escapes between clenched teeth, and then instead of releasing his hold on Geralt he slots his mouth over the soulmark and runs his tongue in a broad sweep across the mark.

Geralt knows three things at once: the first is the absolute unarguable blinding fact that Jaskier is his soulmate, the second is that Jaskier had already known – must have known the moment he saw it, and the third is that no amount of training could have prepared him for the deluge of emotion first contact floods him with.

“I’m going to kill you.” He growls, and Jaskier grins against his neck. Geralt lunges.

The next few seconds are a blur of limbs, squeaks, water, and Geralt getting clipped in the chin by a stray elbow until he has Jaskier sprawled across his lap again looking vivid and ecstatic and flushed from head to toe.

“Still alive,” he chirps and Geralt hauls him in closer until their noses are brushing and asks in his most threatening voice, “Where is it?”

Jaskier snickers, and Geralt holds him tighter, feels the slip slide of their bare skin, his own still mired with the remnants of a bloody battle and Jaskier’s still unmarked.

“I’ve seen you naked,” Geralt warns and Jaskier’s eyes roll. Then he tries to pull back, but Geralt holds him tighter because his bodies still roaring at him with the need to hold, keep, have, guard, protect, worship – the backlash of a soulmark touched by its mate. It crests and crests and crests, and Geralt can barely breath though the thunder in his body, the lightning that twists through his every muscle and lights it up as if he’s alive for the first time, the only time. No training, no restraint, no deadening of the heart could stop the _need_ that overtakes him and in his lap Jaskier is just as bright, just as alive, just as elated. The reciprocation floors him.

“You need to let me go,” Jaskier tells him, the corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth.

Geralt shakes his head, “No.”

Jaskier’s body sags at the admission, languid like a cat as he sprawls across the length of Geralt’s body melding them together. “Besides you weren’t really looking last time, were you?” Jaskier lazily kisses Geralt’s collar bone, then reaches back to a hand clenching him to the witcher and guides it down. Geralt resists at first, then cautiously he lets Jaskier take control. When his hand reaches the centre of Jaskier’s back he feels it – the first touch has happened, it won’t ever leave him overwhelmed with aftershocks of pleasure again, but it still knocks him sideways. Over him Jaskier hisses and then there’s a mouth on his, pressing soft absent kisses that he returns as he strokes the raised mark with two sure fingers. There’s an appeal to the way Jaskier can’t pull himself back together. The way Jaskier presses distracted kisses along his jaw like he can’t quite find the right target. There’s an appeal to knowing he’s the only one – no matter what happened yesterday or what will happen tomorrow – who can affect Jaskier like this. It’s heady and selfish and he knows without a doubt that it’s not one sided.

Jaskier keens when he stops, then makes a less dignified noise when Geralt holds him in his lap and stands. Long legs cling to his hips, Jaskier’s hands grip his neck one pressing into the mark all over again and Geralt gets them to the bed in a tumble, dripping wet and not giving a damn.

“You’ll fuck me this time.” Jaskier demands nails digging into the back of Geralt’s neck.

“Any time you want.” Geralt assures and bends down to start mapping Jaskier’s body with his mouth.

“Oh anytime?” Jaskier’s voice cracks at a scrape of teeth against his ribs, “What if we’re in the middle of a town square and I say, ‘Geralt mate of my soul… bugger me over the cobbler’s wares’, what about then?”

“Try not to ask then.” Geralt grumbles.

“But what if I really really want it?” Jaskier teases and Geralt pulls back from his quest to learn every inch of Jaskier’s skin to frown at the man.

“Do you want me to say no to you?” He checks, and the way Jaskier’s eyes go round and horrified is an answer in itself, “Then stop thinking and tell me how this feels.”

It feels good, apparently, and sometimes awkward, but they figure it out in short order because one of them is impatient and both are determined to please.

Geralt wakes to the smell of violets and the teeth of a comb brushing through his hair.

“What are you doing?” He asks sprawled on his stomach with Jaskier leaning over him.

“Just finishing off,” Jaskier promises and drops as kiss to the back of Geralt’s shoulder blade. “Go back to sleep,” he encourages.

The air is crisp pre-dawn and silent, Geralt is warm and contended. So he closes his eyes and drifts off to the feel of Jaskier’s careful attentions.

**Author's Note:**

> Also in which the author struggles with the knowledge that shampoo as we know it is relatively modern but saying 'soap' is an under simplification.


End file.
